Cherish What Was
by Zyrvis
Summary: Tavros considers himself a black widow. Then he meets Gamzee. And the team commences.
1. A Brief History of Time

Cherish What Was

Chapter 1

I never wanted to be this way. I don't want to kill. But I do. And that's not okay.

My name is Tavros Nitram, and my story is not a happy one.

The world was promised to me, and I did not get the world. My father was a drinker. He would come home and beat me, slap me around. He would force me to get on my hands and knees, and do something shameful. Too shameful. I never had a mother. I never had love. What once was will never be again, I so tell myself. But my mind makes me hurt them, so hurt them I shall.

A territorial marking of free will I try to impart upon the world. But it spits in my face.

And that makes it angry.

The viewing window of my own madness speaks against authority but I repeat to the glass that, no, this will not get us anywhere. We need to wear the paper-thin mask everyone else does. For** then** we will triumph the Earth.

It agrees.

It_ better._

I walked down my basement stairs. There stared Sollux, my friend Aradia's new boy toy. Not for long. She doesn't know I do these things. She doesn't have to know.

She's sad because I do these things. And that's not okay.

I take my hand to his face, and look at him with the dead eyes my father punched into me. He looks so scared. I smile. He doesn't. The chains on his hands keeping him to the wall are making red lines on his wrists. My hot breath mingles with his cold. His eyes close. A breathless chuckle is forced out of my throat. The fire of a single lighter is pressed into his stomach. His eyes open. They tear up; you can see he wants to ask. Why. But he can't. That's the best part.

He can't.

Excitement swells within my veins, and my face tells the tale. He sequels with pain. Like a pig.

I walk away from him, and approach the closet. I open the door with excruciating slowness, I want to torture. I pull out a chainsaw. _A chainsaw._

He practically burns with anxiety. I would, too. I take the handle and pull it with fervency. The loud drowning sound scares him. It would me, too.

I languidly step to his side. His eyes travel to mine. He hasn't stopped shaking yet. He shouldn't.

I advance myself to his being. My baby collides with the vellum of his concert shirt.

I watch as the ever spinning blade slices so easily through his tender epidermis.

Blood bespatters both of us in a glorious bout of red. A smell of iron and copper fills my tongue, and the taste of crimson variegates my ears.

A smile of pure bliss spreads across my visage like butter. This is a time that I feel alive and well and nothing is wrong.

Finally.

The world of the damned shall have a new patron.

Screams.

I hit bone. A pinking sound of rough material bounces from wall to blood-stained wall. And he just won't stop.

But he does. That's how you know it has stopped beating.

The heart, that is.

It was delicious, yes. But,

Boring.

I need excitement in my euthanasia.

…

I need my sleep. A new student is coming tomorrow. He will be fun.

I hope.


	2. Meeting The Cretin

_Hello. This is Zyrvis. I would like to thank all of those who has given me feedback. Please, keep it coming. _  
_Also, something I forgot to say in my first chapter, the inspiration for this fic is a movie /still in theaters/, Seven Psychopaths. It's very good, I recommend it._

* * *

He's here.

He's queer.

Are you fucking kidding me?

He talks with a slur in his words. I could barely understand what blather he's trying to string together. Can he even assemble a sentence?

He wears a face of paint, and a shirt of a band. He has a rainbow pin. And worst of all, his hair looks as if he doesn't even know what a shower _is_.

He has scars along the underside of his arm. Ones that match mine. I can't express enough how much I hate this horrible faggot.

The moment I extracted myself from my cave of blankets was a mistake in itself. But to be greeted by such a disappointment makes the anger in my being grow to an illegible state.

I can't believe how long this fucking asshole can keep his mouth open. The words just bleed together into one big enigma.

The sauce I could make out of him. Jesus.

He finally shuts his estuary and smiles the goofiest fucking aberration I've ever seen. He slowly swaggered his way over to the only vacant seat in the colloquium.

The adjacent chair to mine. Christ.

"Hey, motherfucker. How are you this fine day?" Motherfucker? He couldn't think of anything better than that? Who does this charlatan think he is?

"Uhm, not... bad." I swear to the Lord.

"Good to hear it, man. I'm doing pretty good." Is he even trying anymore?

"Uh, yeah."

"I'm Gamzee by the way, in case you didn't hear it up there." GOD DAMMIT.

"Yep, I heard it..."

"What do you all up and call yourself, bro?"

"Tavros." I looked away in disgust. Putting on a nice face is difficult sometimes.

"Heh. That's a cool motherfuckin' style."

Sigh. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

And with that, he's gone. His attention is elsewhere. The space he is staring off into doesn't seem exceptionally gripping. This is going to be a horrible experience.

As the teacher retorts to an unnecessary remark from Mr. Strider (one of the biggest assholes in this cesspool), I looked down into the depths of my mind, and my focus is deeply seated into just how I'm going to vanquish this ignoramus.

I quickly scribbled down a plan into bullet-pointed blurbs of ideas, making sure the obvious flunkee beside myself doesn't take awareness to his near coming doom.

fIRST, bEFRIEND AND MAKE HIM TRUST YOU  
sECOND, gIVE HIM THE RUFINOL,  
tHRID, pLAN HIS EXACT EXECUTION,  
fOURTH, lAUGH VICTORIOUSLY

Jesus, my handwriting is atrocious. But, that is not the point here. The point is ending his demise plainly.

But how to push the first step forward? He seems to be so trusting. But, he could be dangerous all the same.

Aha! I've got it! Send in an typhlotic spy.

Nepeta will do. She has always given info on unsuspecting victims in which I introduce her to without even realizing the intent of the intel! Ha!

My line of confederates haven't got a clue they've been singing the song of the melanoid's banquet the whole time.

And people wonder why I think so "highly" of myself. The fools.

Sigh. I've gotten off track; something that has been happening more frequently. At an alarming rate, I must add.

Could it be the mental deterioration seen amongst serial killers of all kinds? Hopefully not.

I couldn't let my intelligence crumble.

That would definitely be not okay.

"The fuck's that, brother?"

SHIT.

"Um..." Think fast!

"It's something for..." Trailing off like an idiot I see.

"Roleplaying."

"Roleplaying?"

"Yeah, I... LARP."

"Like, D&D 'n stuff?"

"Exactly! Uh, yeah... This stuff is crucial to my character's interactions with another. It's an impactual part of their relationship."

"Aw sweet, dude. Sounds tight as a bitch. Is this guy you're all up and representin' super evil and shit?"

"Yes. That is exactly the archetype he files under..."

"Wow, that's wicked as hell. "

"Veridical. It is all sorts of 'sick'."

"Mr. Nitram, please refrain from causing such a disturbance in my classroom." Sigh. Just more incentive to finish him off. Don't lose your cool.

"Sorry..."

He looked at me with a disposition of apology. I did my best to not glare into the very abhorrent actuality he pushes off into the atmosphere.

I centered my attention to the head of the ambit. He will** not** be my undertaker.

I have filled those shoes.

* * *

After a gruesome 20 minutes of yammer delivered by the newest occupant on my list, I finally swallowed the last of the chunder brewing in my esophagus.

The abysmal amount of bullshit I have to endure is at an disquieting passel.

Yet, I must remain calm. The mahatman status I lay upon this herd of benighted oxen has to be maintained.

For now, at any rate.


End file.
